


Just One More Cuppa

by girlofthearts



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Arthur being miserable, Character Study, Human AU, implied alcoholism, implied former relationship with a notable blonde character, tea whore arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 02:28:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8472028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlofthearts/pseuds/girlofthearts
Summary: Arthur is an actuary with a very particular set of interests. No, not sex. Tea.





	

              The timer counted down. The thermometer read exactly 98 degrees Celsius. His hand was steady, as he deftly wielded his tools.

The soft burbling of the glossy liquid obscured in a haze of water vapor.

At least, that’s how _he_ liked to think of it. As the cheap plastic timer beeped at him, he lifted the pot of water off the stove in thickly mittened hands.

His tablet screen glowed in the dingy kitchen light, browser pulled open to his favorite forum.

              TeaEnthusiastsAnon.co.uk

Placing the pot on a heat proof pad, he casually reset the timer.

Peering through the steam, Arthur carefully noted what he could see of the color; compared to his last batch, this one looked much closer to the caramel described.

Lowering the temperature just that bit really made a world of difference.

His fingers itched for pen.

The entire north wall of the galley kitchen was open shelving. The light caught the aluminium edges of dozens of tea tins, stacked two deep.

The tin belonging to his current focus was the Earl Grey of Jason’s of Pickadilly. Small batch artisanal.

While normally the word ‘small batch’ or ‘artisanal’ made him sneer (and rightfully so!) this particular tea was rated at 94 teaspoons on the forum, and it had taken him two. Whole. Years. To get a hold of it.

It had, miraculously, appeared in his local tea swap.

But it had cost him half a tin of his yellow gold buds and two favors with Ed from the tea room.

             “Bee-beep.”

Arthur drew his attention back to the work at hand.

The bitterness of unsweetened black tea didn’t face him in the least. The subtle notes of bergamot and lavender were all meticulously taken down. The aroma, the body.

He’d have to steep the leaves again in the morning.

Pouring the rest of the tea into his mug, the glistening tea leaves were placed in a plastic container and labeled by name and date.

In the way of all addicts, such a small hit of caffeine did absolutely nothing for him. He trudged into his bedroom, listlessly dropping onto the bed like a teabag with its string cut.

Darkness enveloped him. Dark, dark, like an English breakfast brew.

…

              He got two more steeps out of those leaves, he later explained on his blog, which is why this receives a solid B+, but no better.

He was proud of his blog. He had following of fellow tea aficionados that brought in enough income to a least offset _some_ of the costs of his hobby. Not that he was hurting for dosh.

No. If there was one thing an actuary didn’t suffer from, it was a lack of income. Even if in exchange he knew exactly how likely it was for his garage door to close on him and crush him as he brought in the trash can, how likely it was for an improperly merging lorry to slam him into the concrete divide on the highway and kill him.

How much less likely he was to live to old age because he lived alone, with no family nearby.

He had been featured as an up and coming name in tea critiquing in TeaTime magazine.

Tonight he was going to cash in on a little of that notoriety and pick up something that promised to be… exquiste.

There were perks to celebrity.

For now, he sits at his desk. It’s an executive width, in mahogany. The finish reflects his spreadsheets and laptop, darkly. It matches his double bookshelves, filled with books of legalese and statistics, and then the three wooden filing cabinets tucked under the windows.

There are no personal effects in this office, other than a coat hook with three duplicate cardigans and a French press tucked behind him.

Even the magnets have only his name and business information.

Another day, another insurance investigator across from him; about to wring some poor soul dry for cash like the last rinse of a Darjeeling, no doubt.

 Thankfully, his clock chimes the hour.

              “Mr. Kirkland, always a pleasure,” The scumbag oozes as he heads for the door. No doubt it is his lunch break as well.

But Arthur was already thumbing the combination on his desk drawer, reaching for his nirvana. The aforementioned scumbag let himself out with an uncomfortable cough.

The fifth box of tea back is the one he’s going for. An earl grey with lavender.

              He shakes the tin.

              It seems a bit light to his seasoned touch.

The electric kettle is unearthed from filing cabinet number two, and swiftly the astringent symphony of tea leaves and bergamot diffuses into the stale office air.

…

              The streets were a dour reflection of his mood; bizarrely satisfying to a cold soul. The harsh push of the crowds, the overwhelming flashes of color and smell jarring along his path.

              A deafening snarl of construction and voices.

The simultaneously squeal of breaks as a pair of lorries just barely swerve around a collision. His heart thumped in time with the sounding of the horns, the city sounding in his blood.

They statistics for living in a city were bleak, lengthy papers hypothesizing and theorizing over emotional isolation and personal connections being sieved through technology; packaged into ugly little social media boxes.

And that’s why it’s the perfect place for him to live, honestly.

The tea shop was a short tube ride away from his office, conveniently placed to fulfill his needs.

The goods were a bit dear, certainly, but when one doesn’t eat out. Or entertain. Or shop for more than one.

              … It was no strain on the budget.

A flash of blonde in the crowd called to his eyes, a nearly perfect shade of wheat.

Like chamomile in the noonday sun. Vivid corn silk through his fingers.

His leather sole caught in the unevenly paved sidewalk; unbalanced, he dropped to his knees.

              “Watch were the fuck you’re going, why don’t you?” A man with a dozing baby strapped on his chest spat and he stumbled past.

              “Why don’t you come back here you fucking _cunt_?” Arthur sneered as he took in the flashed two finger salute and the dark mud on his trousers.

He kept his eyes trained on the pavement for the remainder of the walk.

 

There was something about this particular store that reminded him of a chapel.

The polished wood and aisles and aisles of gleaming aluminum.

Fragrant perfume from hundreds of steeps, mingling with hundreds of grams of loose leaf. It was equal to any sacred incense in its purity.

The rows of hand labeled tins were a welcome sight.

              “Arthur Kirkland! Good to see you,” The vibrantly clad figure coming towards him was the proprietor. Draped in her usual yards of shimmering fabrics and her long hair elaborately pinned, she stood out among the smartly organized space.

              “And you,” He shoved his hands in his pocket, the wooden floor creaking ad he shifts, “My package ready?”

A droll look is directed his way, laugh lines creasing on her face. She hefted a paper bag from behind the counter. It sagged with weight. “Your usual order and an extra something special.”

He patted down his coat, groping for his wallet, “I have hopes for this one.”

              “You always say that.”

              ”I usually mean it, and more the fool I for it.”

 

              Consciousness came. Slowly, with the quickened breath of nightmares on it's heels. His brain felt like it was attempting to pour out his ears, sloshing around as if as the liquids imbibed the previous night were contained within. The cacophony of street traffic. Agony. The ratta-tat-tat inside his skull; positively hellacious.

In this disjointed haze, Arthur fumbled for the bottle of aspirin he kept in his bedside table. Useful in moments such as this, which were all too common a commodity in his life of late.

A great heave brought him to the edge of the bed. The room danced on its axis.

The morning was bleak and cool.

He suddenly, vividly remembered that he had tried the tea from the shop last night. It was fine. Good. Exemplary, even.

“I wonder if I’ve got any vodka left.”

 


End file.
